I'll Be Your Mirror
by cally777
Summary: The Hero of Bowerstone has many avatars in the alternate universes of Fable2, each with their own lives and loves. Celeste is sensuous, materialistic and cynical, Clarice pure, noble and virtuous. When their worlds collide, will Corruption prove too tempting or Purity prevail? And will they find that loving yourself is the greatest love of all?
1. One Becomes Two

I'll Be Your Mirror by Cally 777

I do not own Fable2 which is the intellectual property of Lionhead. The story following will exploit many of the quirks of the game, especially _cooperative play_. Please remember that, like the game, its intended to be fun, so try to forgive any lack of consistency in the way this is done. And its supposed to be sexy rather than sexual, hence I've rated it T rather than M (but I'm open to criticism on that score). Enjoy the ride, and treasure any deeper meanings you may find within. As usual, I hope the story will be understandable to general readers as well as fans.

The lyrics below are taken from the Velvet Underground album, _Andy Warhol_, featuring Nico (all rights acknowledged). The theme of the story was chosen first and expressed in the song (and its title), not the other way round, so it's not really a song fic.

_I'll be your mirror,_  
_Reflect what you are, in case you don't know._  
_I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset,_  
_The light on your door to show that you're home._

_When you think the night has seen your mind,  
That inside you're twisted and unkind,  
Let me stand to show that you are blind,  
Please put down your hands  
'Cause I see you.  
_

_I find it hard to believe you don't know  
The beauty you are.  
But if you don't, let me be your eyes,  
A hand to your darkness, so you won't be afraid.  
_

_When you think the night has seen your mind,  
That inside you're twisted and unkind,  
Let me stand to show that you are blind,  
Please put down your hands  
Cause I see you.  
_

_I'll be your mirror_

* * *

Ch 1 Prologue: One Becomes Two

_Plish, plash._

The man listened to the drops of water falling from the stalactites high up in the Well Spring. He could hear, but he could not see. He could not see because he was tied up and gagged, so tightly cocooned that he was unable to move his hands, feet or even his head by more than an inch.

He knew though, that he was not alone.

The Well Spring had once been inhabited by bandits. The signs of their presence remained like traces of a foul odour: a rotting bandana, a rusting sword, a metal cooking pot, an empty smashed chest. But they were either dead or long gone, and the sweat running from the man's forehead, the muffled harshness of his breathing, the insistent beating of his heart, was not because of them.

His respiration and pulse increased as he heard the crunch of boots on rock nearby, caught a glimpse of a dark reflection in the clear waters of the central pool, distorted by concentric ripples from the falling water drops. By twisting his neck, and rolling his eyes sideways and upwards as far as they would go, he was able to turn them towards the path above the cavern wall he was bound against. Someone was walking there, but he could see only below the person's waist.

The boots were of leather and laced to thigh length, dyed midnight black. Above them were the bare tops of supple, muscular legs. The flesh of them was firm and healthy, yet they were crisscrossed with a network of fine blue lines, resembling veins except that they glowed faintly in the dim light.

The legs disappeared into a pair of tight shorts, of similar material and colour to the boots. And above _them_, coming into view, a waist compressed into an hourglass figure by a tightly laced corset, also of black leather.

The legs stopped abruptly. Then, without further ado, they took a leap off the pathway, landing with a crack of spiked heels on rock that echoed throughout the cavern. The man wrenched his head to follow, but there was no need, for the woman was lowering herself down to his eye level. More and more of her upper body came into his view, so that he could see the corset filled out to barely accommodate the plentiful curves of her breasts. In spite of fear and tension, his eyes couldn't avoid being drawn in their direction. The soft flesh forming a deep valley before him was traced with the same vein-like pattern of luminescent blue.

He finally tore his gaze away and upwards past the elegant sweep of her neck to reluctantly meet his captor's eyes. Sloe-brown and made even darker with kohl, they seemed to him sensual yet cruel. She reached forward and abruptly ripped the gag from his mouth. Breathing hard, he kept his lips tightly compressed, staring at her wild-eyed.

The woman let out a long breath, less of a sigh and more of an almost animal expression of desire. His attention was drawn to her wide fleshy mouth; glistening, red lips drawn back slightly over pearl white teeth in a sardonic smile.

_Whore! Treacherous, cunning whore!_

"Well, have you had time enough to reconsider?" She spoke lightly, almost playfully. "Though I expect after years in a dark, stuffy cell, the hours must have simply flown by."

He remained obstinately mute.

"That's too bad, as unfortunately my patience is wearing thin. You will tell me what you know, by ways pleasant or not so pleasant. It's really up to you, how you succumb. But I would have thought that you'd prefer to have some of the hot and naughty fantasies going round in your head come true. Rather than the nightmares."

She leaned towards him, projecting her prominent bosom even closer, as though taunting him with it.

Desperately he shouted, "Keep away from me, harlot! The secrets of the multiverse are not for the ears of the unenlightened and unworthy!"

She withdrew just a fraction. "Harlot! Ooh that hurts! I certainly wouldn't put out for mere money. But for the hidden secrets of the universe … maybe." She reached out a slender hand to touch his cheek, making him flinch. "Calling me a harlot makes me think you don't really want me to keep away. You may be a monk, but you're also a man. And I know how men think."

Hoarsely he muttered, "I'm a hermit, not a monk. And I have resisted the foul temptations of demons like you."

"Oh, apologies. A _hermit_." She put a lustful breathiness into the aspirant sound. "I'm thinking that the demons didn't offer you the right kind of temptations, _hermit_. Mine are less of the foul and more of the delightful, irresistible kind."

With a wink, she pressed the flat of her palm to her cherry red lips with an audible smooching sound, then blew the kiss towards him, her mouth forming an erotic 'o' as she expelled the air. It struck him with the impact of a physical touch. Blood rushed to his face and other parts of his body as he felt an unstoppable surge of desire.

_Avo protect me!_

The woman removed her esoteric looking black skullcap, shaking free carmine-coloured tresses. As though confident of her charms, she moved sinuously ever closer.

"You see? Very soon you won't care a stuff about your stupid religious laws." Practically purring, she continued, "And there's certainly something quite delicious about helping you break them after all those years of … mmm … restraint. Now …" Her hand crept under the bottom of his robe "I think we've got a result here."

_Ohhh … accursed witch!_

"Ooh, yes, we most definitely have! First though I want you to tell me everything you know about the Orbs. And then, and only then, you'll receive your deserved reward."

* * *

Golden rays of sunshine were streaming through the stained glass windows of _The Steel Moon_ as the Hero of Bowerstone awoke from a light sleep. She had purposely left the curtains undrawn to help rouse her at an early hour. The world once again called her to fulfil her destiny.

From his place by the hearth, her dog, Rex, gave the tiniest of whines, instantly silenced as she gestured firmly in his direction. Carefully she pulled back the sheets, trying to extract herself from the bed without waking the man sleeping at her side. First one leg … and then … damn! The rhythm of his breathing abruptly altered, and his eyes shot open.

"Awake already? C'mere … "

Trying to wriggle free of his groping hands, she protested, "I've got a lot to do today, and Valerie needs her breakfast!"

"Nonsense! She won't even be awake yet. We've got plenty of time for a little roll in the hay before she does."

"But I've got a …"

"No more headaches! Time to do your wifely duty, you little tease!"

She struggled for a moment, then with a heavy sigh submitted._ Lets hope he doesn't last long as usual._

"Nothing like a touch of morning glory to get things going!"

_Good, the sooner he starts the sooner he'll be …_

"Alex, wait a moment! I need to get my ointment."

"You don't need that rubbish, what you need is a good seeing to courtesy of your husband!"

"What I don't need right now is another child. I've too many important tasks ahead of me."

"Ah, go on then! I was gonna wear a bloody condom anyway."

The ointment, extracted from herbal simples and recommended by Therese herself, had both lubricant and contraceptive properties. With the precautions in place, she waited passively, only responding to raise her arms while he lifted her flimsy, white nightgown over her head. As always, even in front of him, she felt self-conscious about the Will lines criss-crossing her body, the thick, bright pulsing threads interlacing even her swelling breasts. But he was interested only in reaching out to touch the velvet softness of her flesh.

"You're so beautiful, Clarice."

_Even he can pull off a line like that._ He kissed her gently, pressing her down onto the firm mattress. She shut her eyes, hoping to gain some pleasure from what had become for her a meaningless act. If she could send her mind back into the past, remember what it felt like when …

* * *

The gypsy caravan was different from all the others in the camp. It was closest in design to Jed's, the general trader. The brightly painted wooden exterior was matched in part by some of the better and more imaginatively designed wagons gathered together in the leafy glade. And the interior was as dark and mysterious as that of even the poorest of the woodland dwellers. But this particular vehicle had an enticement entirely of its own. It came from the World Beyond.

It had stood for most of the day now in the topmost part of the camp, a fine location overlooking the mirror clear waters of Bower Lake far below. Gypsy children had danced around it, and played games of tag, trying to take a peek inside before being scolded by their elders. Adolescents had come to cast shy glances at its owner, and tribal matrons to gossip and tut at her clothes and hair. The older and wealthier gypsies had hung about making wise-sounding comments regarding the merchandise, and some had even ventured to pick up and examine individual items, exclaiming at the quality and marvelling at the fineness of the designs. But most had departed muttering that such costly things were not for the likes of them, and eventually the isolated corner of the camp was left to the butterflies, birds and squirrels.

With twilight approaching and the low sun colouring the lake water like blood, a slender, shadowy figure stole up the dimming path towards the caravan. She was still a girl, although almost a woman, her breasts near full beneath her loose white blouse and orange jerkin. She wore a flounced, multi-layered skirt in the gypsy fashion, but her hair, instead of being confined by a patterned kerchief, hung loose in a ponytail. Whipping in the blustery wind whirling the red and gold autumn leaves, it hinted, along with a flash of dark eyes and a proud tilt of chin, that she possessed a strong sense of individuality, and even of rebelliousness.

Outside the caravan, she hesitated. The hinged side, which dropped to display the goods for sale, had been closed. But the doorway at the front end remained open, and on the steps below, the occupant was sitting, puffing calmly on a water pipe.

She turned dreamy eyes to inspect her visitor. Differing from the commonality of her race, they were a light sea green, deep set in her dark complexion like topaz gems in brown clay. The curve of her nose and bow-shaped lips gave her a touch of nobility worthy of a Gypsy Queen, even if her clothes and kerchief were altogether unremarkable. To the girl she seemed old enough to be the mother she could no longer remember, though as the world of Albion measured time, she was little more than thirty.

Removing the hookah pipe from her mouth, she said, "Well now, I'm sure I haven't seen you before." Her voice had mellowed to become a universal agglomeration of tones, with only a trace of its original accent.

The girl gave a shy blush. "You haven't. I wasn't here earlier."

"Busy chasing the young men, eh?" the woman suggested merrily.

"No!" She coloured more deeply. "I … just wanted to come on my own."

"Ah, a loner!" She looked amused. "You and I might have something in common. Anyway, you've come at the right time, young …?"

"Sparrow, they call me."

"They_ call_ you that. Well, I won't ask your real name for now. Mine's Luba. Why don't you come inside, young Sparrow."

As she mounted the steps, the gypsy trader reached out a somewhat calloused hand to pull her up. Her grip felt a little rough and the two skin tones showed a contrast, one significantly darker than the other.

Luba appeared to have noticed the difference, for she paused. "That's much fairer skin you've got. I'll warrant you're no gypsy child."

Sparrow looked down. "I grew up in Bowerstone Old Town. My older sister, Rose, looked after me." She raised her eyes again defiantly. "After she died, a sage called Therese brought me here."

The older woman continued to hold her in a hard grasp. "They say true gypsies have the Second Sight. With mine I see pain, want, and the need for revenge. What happened to your sister?"

Sparrow's jaw stiffened. "She just … died."

Luba's green-eyed gaze remained intent. But she said, "Come inside."

The caravan smelt of incense and perfume, with a hint of strong oils. Cooking and washing facilities were at the far end, with miscellaneous utensils, pots and tools hanging from the sides. Towards the middle, the merchandise was displayed in a similar fashion. Rack after rack of guns met Sparrow's eyes, all in perfect, gleaming condition.

The trader nodded towards them. "This what you came to see?"

Sparrow advanced cautiously in the confined space. "Yes."

"You don't look like someone who can afford my particular wares. But I guess there's no harm in looking." She reached out. "Feast your eyes on this! A steel flintlock. Comes with a slot for augments like Chik the Stonecutter makes. I guarantee there's no finer pistol to be found between Oakfield and the Bandit Coast."

Luba cocked the weapon with a swift and easy motion, and offered it to Sparrow, who examined it curiously. The gun had a smooth barrel, and was plated with silver around the trigger and grip, finely inscribed with flowing patterns. In the side was a round indent about the size of a small gem. She raised her arm at full extension and pulled the trigger. There was an audible click.

The trader gave a chuckle. "Not loaded, of course. Just as well: an inexperienced shooter like you could break her wrist or shoulder with the recoil." She shut one eye in calculation. "At a conservative estimate, its worth more than three times the value of the caravan you sleep in. Still interested?"

Sparrow caressed the weapon, feeling its weight and shape. Reluctantly she handed it back. "One day I'll buy one."

"Really? And what would someone like you want with such a toy?" This time the laughter was louder, with a hint of scorn.

"Therese says that I may need to learn …" Sparrow stopped herself.

"Aha! Now we get to it." Luba pulled down a bunk from a wall compartment. "Sit here." Sparrow hesitantly took the place next to her. "Are you scared of me, young Sparrow?"

"Of course not!"

"No … I bet you're the brave one. Listening to that old witch and her crazy notions, you'll be ready for all kinds of escapades, I'm thinking."

Defensively: "She's not an old witch, she's a wise woman!"

"The two aren't so far apart you know. It's said she teaches long forgotten heroic skills to those willing to pay heed. Even the forbidden arts of sorcery. I'd advise you to stay clear of all that nonsense. Many of the so-called heroes from the past were either villains or self-important idiots."

"But true heroes would never behave dishonourably!"

"Humph! They're still part of an age long gone … or they ought to be. You're better off spending your time finding yourself a spouse. Or a lover, if you prefer."

Sparrow blushed anew. "I don't need … anyone like that."

Luba raised her eyebrows. "Then you're an exceptional young woman. Anyway, who said anything about needing? Making love is one of life's pleasures." She gave Sparrow a smile and a wink. "Just like eating a peach." Suiting action to words, she took a fruit from a nearby basket and bit into it. "Here."

A little reluctantly, Sparrow took a bite from the other half. The sweet juices still filling her mouth, she said, with some difficulty. "The men here have been nice to me but … I know them all too well. There's no one that makes me feel … special."

"Hankering for someone a little bit different, eh? Some smart boy from the city? Or maybe a passing traveller?" Luba leaned closer to nudge Sparrow, increasing her embarrassment. "Well, you'll need some advanced love-making skills to impress those sorts, I'm telling you."

"L … like what?"

"Oh … there are all sorts of things you can learn. Quite a few books written on that subject over the years. You might be lucky enough to come across one. Easier though if you get someone to teach you."

"Teach me how?"

Luba took the peach carefully from Sparrow's unresisting hand, biting into it again before casually throwing it away. "I suppose, for instance, that you've never been kissed properly? No? I thought as much. So, you need someone to practice with." She leaned in closer again. "We can try it now, if you like."

"B,but … you're a …"

"Don't matter much about that; technique's exactly the same."

Those eyes like sparkling gemstones fascinated her. She knew they were demanding something.

"A … all right … maybe just once."

"Sit nearer to me then." The first touch of thigh against thigh, shoulder against shoulder. "Now turn your head sideways, and part your lips a little like so."

"Mmmm …"

"See, that was nice wasn't it?"

Nice! She was unable to conceive a reply that would get anywhere near the sensation!

A smile, so seductively knowing, so confident. "Are you ready to try again?"

This time, the sense of passion, of frantic desire was stronger.

"Wh … what are you doing?"

"Just loosening your clothing. You're getting a little heated, aren't you?"

"I … feel so …"

"It's perfectly natural. You feel like you want to be touched, don't you? And I know exactly where to touch you."

* * *

*_One Becomes Two: _I've done a little backwards editing to make this more musically apt, as well as describing more accurately what's happening in the chapter/story. You can think of it as the reverse of the Spice Girls' ditty, though there's a Janis Joplin song of exactly this name.

_The Well Spring:_ not to be confused with the Well Spring Cave. The latter is haunted by Hollow Men not Bandits.

_Avo:_ the hermit seems to be a devotee of one of the 'old gods', now generally replaced by the Cults of Light and Shadow (thanks to CASSANDRA BLACK I realised that Avo is more appropriate for a basically good aligned hermit to worship).

_Ointment_: fans won't of course find the use of condoms in Albion surprising, but I've also added the equivalent of spermicidal gel, often recommended as an additional contraceptive precaution.

_Therese:_ for reasons of whimsy I've preferred the French spelling.

Well its exciting to be writing (at last!) a new story in a whole new genre! I love to get reviews, and I don't mind if they're critical. For me they can be really inspiring and often give me ideas, so don't hold back!

SPECIAL MESSAGE (Revised): everything's fixed and the story continues! I have a new computer, and I've recovered the 'lost chapter' from the old one which you can now read following this one! Sorry about the delay between updates due to that aforementioned trouble. They should come considerably quicker now.


	2. Cemetery Gates

*I'm back with the 'lost chapter' recovered completely! I suppose, given the rating, a slight warning for moderately graphic violence may be appropriate. No animals will be harmed, but I've said nothing about what harm animals might _do.*_

* * *

Ch 2 Cemetery Gates

The doors to _The Rookridge Inn_ rattled inwards, allowing a rain-saturated gust of wind to blast across the threshold, bringing with it the nearby sound of rushing water and the heavy tread of boots. From his place behind the bar, Tom the Pot boy gave a shiver, and looked up from beneath his low fringe to observe the latest customer. She gave a significant glance in the direction of the innkeeper, then strode across the wooden floor to sit down in a corner booth, opposite the space occupied by the tall-hatted spinner box vendor, the only regular patron present.

Shuffling about in an uneasy manner, the innkeeper set out a tray and added to it a fresh baked pie, a foaming mug of the potent brew known as the Yellow Fairy and, rather incongruously, a single stalk of celery. He was about to lift it, when Tom nudged him.

"Here, Bob, let me take that for you."

"All right lad. Remember this is a _special_ client." The weight of his words held the strong implication: _you'd better not mess this up._

Receiving the tray with eager hands, Tom turned to walk carefully towards the corner table. _At last! _He'd seen the woman at the inn on many previous occasions, and this was the first time he'd been entrusted to serve her. But as he grew closer, his nerves grew, and the tray began to shake perceptibly. The huge, grey hound at her feet raised its head, and gave the faintest of growls.

He tried to calm himself by not looking directly at her. Instead he focused his gaze on the hilt of the great curved sword that was slung in a baldric from her back. He'd heard Bob say that such blades were manufactured only in the lands of the East, and were often employed by fell pirates to butcher their victims. The cutlass was balanced by the tall stock of a flintlock rifle on her other shoulder. Both weapons looked to be of superior design, and contained duel slots for the magic augment stones made by the gypsies. Even one such talisman cost more gold than a pot boy was likely to see in his lifetime.

Allowing his thoughts to dwell on the prospect of far-flung adventures bolstered his courage, but also distracted him, so that as he put down the tray, he stumbled slightly, causing a small amount of the Yellow Fairy to slosh from its tankard.

He heard Bob give a sharp intake of breath.

"S... sorry, I …"

"Don't let it worry you, boy." Her voice was pleasant enough, with a natural ease of manner that reassured him enough to look up.

His breaths came quickly, and his heart thumped. Her eyes, so dark as to be almost black, were on him, casting a spell that froze him to the spot. Her face seemed to him that of an angel, so perfect and noble that it emanated a kind of radiance. He felt himself suffused with a feeling that was partly terror and partly ecstasy.

"…I …"

He was intensely aware of every detail of her appearance. Her hair was tightly confined into an ornate cap, in the style commonly adopted by Will Users, but her eyebrows were dark brown and somewhat arched above a retrouse nose and full-lipped mouth. The long outer robe she had not bothered to remove shimmered with the costliest blue and white dyes, the lapels and sleeves decorated with embroidered silk. Her thigh boots and gloves were of the finest leather. The silver bracelets on her arms, the gold rings on her fingers and piercing her ears were studded with rubies, sapphires and diamonds that looked to him the size of eggs.

He sensed from the impatient frown gathering on her brow that she was about to dismiss him in a caustic manner. _Don't just gape like an idiot!_

"I've seen you here many times before." He could scarcely believe he'd managed to speak, however lamely.

"Yes … and?"

"I've often thought to have words with you."

"What about?" Her tone continued mild enough, but behind him the innkeeper's breathing had come to resemble that of an apoplectic Balverine about to spring.

"Tom, come back here and stop bothering the hero."

"It's all right, Bob." Spoken with a firmness that defied anyone to say it wasn't. "He's plucked up the courage. Let him speak his piece."

Scarcely able to believe his opportunity had arrived, Tom blurted, "I've a mind to go adventuring, like you do."

The woman paused for a moment, the tankard halfway to her mouth. Then she burst out in a great gale of laughter. The laugh had a rich fullness to it, shot through with an edge of mockery. With such laughter the gods might ridicule the pretensions of mere mortals.

"Adventuring … ah, me!" She gasped for air. Tom's face had grown the colour of beet. "What's your name, boy?"

Barely able to stammer, he managed, "Tom, so please you."

"Well, Tom, I would send you away post-haste with your tail between your legs, but for one thing. I was once an urchin lowlier even than you, scavenging the streets of Bowerstone. Yet there's an important difference. The blood of heroes flows in my veins. I very much doubt it does in yours."

"Yet I would seek revenge for …"

"The bandits who killed your family … something of that kind? It's a pretty common story. And I know what it is to desire vengeance. Yet in itself it's not enough. Summers and winters uncounted have followed the downfall of the Heroes guild, and the old skills of Strength, Skill and Will are forgotten by all but a few. Without them you can hope at best to be a guard or town watchman … maybe even a bandit yourself."

"Teach me these skills, and I'll follow you anywhere!"

"Well now," she said, somewhat wryly. "You have something of a soft tongue in your head after all. But I don't need another stalker. Any follower of mine must be of unswerving courage, not a love-sick fool."

"I …" he could say nothing in denial; she had so easily divined his thought. "If devotion and loyalty leads to bravery, then I have it."

She laughed again, this time a more silvery sound. "Well-spoken for a pot-boy! Perhaps you have at least a drop of hero blood. But talk is one thing … real guts another."

Without breaking the rhythm of her speech, she began to mutter in a tongue unknown to Tom, though the sounds had a harshness and ugliness to them that set his teeth on edge. Beneath the table, the dog gave a strange whine, the hairs on its back rising. Tom felt his own respond in sympathy.

The temperature around him was dropping rapidly. The lights in the tavern seemed to have dimmed, and a strong draught was rattling the tables and chairs. There was a faint sound in the air, like a whispering or hissing.

And then white shapes began to form in the air, changing and billowing, gibbering like lost souls.

Through the chattering of his teeth, he heard the innkeeper's shout. "Hero, please! No Shadows in my place!"

One of the phantasms was snuffling around Tom's leg, slit eyes glowing hungrily, ghostly clawed hands groping and _passing through him_, He remained petrified but paralysed, as one might at the approach of a large, fierce dog. He was uncertain whether self-control or blind terror was preventing him from running screaming from the inn. He felt sick.

With a suddenness that was almost as jarring, the spectral shapes vanished, and the room was as before.

Sweat was pouring from Tom's forehead. Looking round he saw the innkeeper also resembled a Fairfax cheese that had been out too long. Jenny the barmaid was cowering beneath a table, her knees knocking.

The woman gave a short laugh. "Well, at least you didn't run like a frightened rabbit. The very minimum needed to pass the test." She rose to her feet. "Come with me a moment, come outside."

When she stood next to him, her almost unnatural tallness was apparent. In a daze, Tom took several shaky steps towards the doors, which she was holding open against the wind. He glanced at the innkeeper, who returned him a grim look, and shook his head.

Turning back to meet her compelling eyes, Tom felt he had no choice in the matter. On the front porch, rain was sweeping over the darkened landscape, scudding clouds obscuring the moon. From the height of the inn, the land fell away dramatically, and the churning mill sent water foaming down the falls and into the river course, winding past the rebuilt bridge and onwards to the distant flats of the seashore. But it was to the high crags, where another arching span bridged a chasm, that the woman's gaze was presently turned.

"Do you know that building yonder?"

The moon shone from behind the clouds, silhouetting the desolate, ruined church against a ghastly white nimbus, gleaming through the tall, empty windows.

"The … the Temple of Shadows? Of course I know it!"

"Would you follow me there?" Tom's tongue stuck in his mouth, but the woman merely chuckled. "Don't worry, that's not my destination, not tonight anyway. But if you should go with me, you may encounter greater terrors soon enough." She turned and faced in the opposite direction. "Tomorrow I travel to Bowerstone Cemetery for a special ceremony. If you wish to see bandits die, that'll be your chance. Providing you're up by daybreak, that is. And now I would eat and sleep."

* * *

Heavy rain had continued to lash down during the hours of darkness, but dawn showed the curtains of precipitation drawing aside, and as he pushed back the inn doors, Tom inhaled the sweet scent of the flowers nestling against the cliff edge. She was waiting there for him, the dog sitting panting at her side.

The innkeeper had bidden him farewell without rancour, promising to keep his position open as long as possible.

"But if you take my advice, you'll not go trailing after heroes. It never leads to any good."

Tom had thanked him without comment.

"So, you've come." She smiled faintly. The dog gave a quizzical sounding bark. "This is Canis Major. That means 'Big Dog' in the ancient tongue, or so Therese tells me. I usually just call him Major. Major meet Tom."

Tom ventured to cautiously pat the animal, which gave only the slightest of growls.

"And how shall I call you?"

"As we're travelling together I guess we can drop formal titles like Blade, Lionheart or whatever. You may call me Celeste." She regarded the heavens. "The weather's cleared, and I see no reason for further delay."

They swiftly descended the twisty path towards the rebuilt bridge. Tom gave an apprehensive look at the tall conical spire of the crooked tower looming over them. Rumour spoke of tunnels beneath inhabited by hobbes who stole away children. He had never cared to investigate, and that thought sat ill in his present circumstances. Some hero he was!

Then he saw the bodies lying in the soft mud. There was something pathetic about their misshapen forms, like the cadavers of deformed infants.

"Cleared the little buggers out the way last night to save time. But they'll make more of their kind in their underground lairs."

Tom felt the morning chill seep into his bones. As they passed the rain-soaked corpses and crossed the bridge, he raised his eyes to where the road wound upwards between the hills and the sea, and out of sight.

Celeste pointed. "See that old arch before the turn. A favourite place for an ambush. But stay close to me, and you ought to survive. Probably."

She set out towards the cliff-path at a good pace, and Tom was forced to quicken his. Life as a pot boy had inured him to long hours standing, but not to rapid exercise. By the time they approached the curve in the path his breaths were coming in fast pants, a mixture of fear and exertion.

Movement ahead near the arch, a flash of garish red, resolving itself into two or three figures, bristling with weapons.

Bandits!

The sharp crack of the flintlock rifle came as a shock. He had not even witnessed Celeste unsling and raise it to her shoulder. One of the bandits fell without a cry, dropping his own firearm.

Celeste had already re-slung the rifle and was running forward, drawing the scimitar from its sheath with a whisper of steel. Stark cold with terror, but fearing even more to be left alone, Tom plunged wildly after her.

Celeste met the foremost of the bandits at full charge, her sword held in both hands. Using her forward momentum, she swung the blade with immense power and speed, completely smashing aside the rogue's feeble attempt at a parry, and carving downwards to split him apart from shoulder to hip, the two halves of the body falling in different directions.

The remaining two bandits moved to position themselves either side of her. Tom, rushing up behind, came to an abrupt halt. Close quarters didn't improve his view of her adversaries. They were big men with big cutlasses, and a layer of filth on their persons that couldn't quite hide the old scars. They favoured flashy, cheap jewellery and loose, colourful clothing, bandanas wrapped around their heads and faces.

Celeste stayed quite still, seemingly unconcerned with her opponents manoeuvrings. Her dog remained at her heels, growling fiercely.

"Look out!" Tom had seen the bandit behind her begin a lunge.

Reacting as though she had eyes in the back of her head, Celeste almost casually swung back her sword to brush aside the attack. Then as the second bandit chopped at her, she brought her weapon forward swiftly to deflect his downward stroke, sending him reeling off balance. Instantly she had grabbed him from behind, swinging him to use as a human shield, and holding her blade across his neck. While his comrade hesitated, she cut his throat from ear to ear, letting the body slump in a torrent of blood.

The man gave an outraged cry. "You murdered me mate! You'll pay for that, bitch!"

Celeste offered him a cool smile. "Au contraire, you'll shortly both be dog food."

With a roar the bandit charged her, lashing out in a whirlwind of cuts. Celeste backed off a little, meeting each frenzied stroke with a precise parry, as though she took a gleeful delight in showing her mastery of swordplay. Then as the onslaught slowed, she stretched out to deliver a fast low slash, hamstringing her opponent. He collapsed, and Major instantly pounced, tearing open his throat to the accompaniment of horrible screams.

"You and your little doggy are gonna die. No one kills my lads and gets away with it."

Tom turned in alarm to see who had spoken. The bandit emerging from behind the arch seemed much larger than the others, although this could've been because he wore a peculiar iron helmet, surmounted by the horns of a stag, and the bulky protection of padded leather armour.

Celeste gave a quick wink in Tom's direction. "Saving the best for last is always more entertaining."

This time she did not hesitate to take the initiative. As the bandit chieftain attempted a lumbering advance, she attacked swiftly, the air singing as she wove a glittering ring of steel around him, driving him backwards. The sound of blade on blade increased, as he was forced to defend himself on the very edge of the cliff. A final desperate lunge exposed his back, whereupon Celeste grabbed his shoulder, planted her boot against his backside and thrust him out into empty space. A long trailing cry followed, abruptly cut off.

Celeste paused a moment for breath, then began to laugh a little in fits and starts.

"Some say people who fall from a great height are dead before they hit the ground. Fear stops their hearts. Does that sound likely to you, Tom?" When he did nothing but continue to breathe hard, she added with a hint of contempt, "What, too pumped up to answer me?"

"You …" his words were still separated by pants. "You … enjoyed that."

For an instant her face showed consternation, then broke into a mocking smile. "Oh, Tom, I thought I had a follower, not a moral philosopher! This is what I do. Adventuring amounts to killing people. A lot of people."

"Maybe so. It still doesn't make it right."

For the first time, she showed a flash of anger. "You dare to stand there and judge me, you who …" Then with a noticeable effort at self-control. "Enough! I'm bored with this already. Perhaps it will suit you better to hang back while I clear the paths ahead. I'll travel faster that way. I'll meet you at the cemetery gates after moonrise." Lowering her voice seductively, she added, "I'll be _very_ disappointed if you don't show up."

Sheathing her sword, she sprang swiftly away.

* * *

A dense, mist hung about the tall, iron gates, wisps curling around the grotesque gargoyles perched atop them. Darkness had covered the land for several hours, and the rising moon shone in faint luminescence through the swirling fog.

Tom approached the graveyard entrance with hesitant steps. He had resisted the strong urge to return to the _Rookridge Inn_, though exactly what had drawn him to follow Celeste thus far was still unclear in his mind. Curiosity? The shame of being thought a coward? Or, however improbably, the hope of winning her favour? Whatever the answer, he had a set a doggedly steady pace throughout the hours of daylight, following the twining paths towards Bowerstone, never catching sight of her again, though he knew she had passed from the occasional bodies of bandits scattered in his way. With that assurance of her promise to clear the route of danger, he had persisted, even when the coming of night had turned the road through the forest into a fear-filled passage between darkly overhanging boughs, shadowy trunks and the sinister rustling of leaves.

To enter the cemetery alone, however, was something else entirely. Not perhaps in daylight, when the sun shone warm on the white stones, filtering brightly through the verdant green of bushes and trees. But at this hour all the tales he'd heard of ghouls, ghosts and banshees were instantly brought to mind. Had there not been reports even lately of the unquiet dead thronging amidst these very precincts, summoned hence by foul necromancy?

He was not destined to discover whether he had the courage. The mist had parted to show that before the iron gates sat a great, grey hound, so still that it might itself have been one of the staring gargoyles. And standing on its right, a tall, robed figure that in the cheating light could have been part of the statuary. But the shapes of sword and gun, and the faint blue lines illuminating her form in the darkness told him that the appointed tryst had been met. A feeling of strong relief hastened his steps forward.

"Tom, my courageous if conscience-stricken follower." Her words of greeting gave rise to no feeling of pride, tainted, in his mind, with cynical mockery.

"What kind of funeral would take place at this hour?" He marvelled that he could speak to her with such cold abruptness.

"A most apt question. But I said nothing of performing rites for the recently deceased. If you want to find an answer to the mystery, step within."

The silent, eeriness of the fog-shrouded graveyard, its tombs and statues looming out of the mist as though closing in on every side, was enough to chill the blood of someone far braver than Tom. Yet the difference made by Celeste's presence, whatever his doubts about her, brought at least some firmness to his steps. Without further hesitation, he followed her as she strode deep into the heart of the burial grounds, past a bent over iron statue, stopping at last before the open door of a time-weathered mausoleum, with the head of a lion carved above its lintel.

"This place will be sufficient for the casting."

"What casting? And why here?"

"This place is old. Its roots go deep, back to the time of the remotest of our remote ancestors. When shaman chanted to appease the lingering souls of the dead, before even the Guild came to be."

Tom, watching her face pale and intent in the fog-damped moonlight, thought that she looked young, yet sounded at this moment so much older.

"How can you know this from so long ago? You speak almost as if you were there."

"In a way, I was. My lineage is an ancient one, my blood passed untainted from parent to child over all the years spanning from that time to this. I feel the call of the distant dead; I hear their long-forgotten voices. There is power in them."

"Power for what?"

"Power to bend and twist space. All spells are strong here. And I need that power, Tom." There was something new in her expression, a craving that frightened him. "Despite what you see here …" she traced the spider-web of glowing lines on her palm, "and the gossip of commoners and the wild boasts of bards, my strength of Will falls short. Most of it lies in the summoning of shadows, which cause little damage to my enemies, serving mainly as a distraction. Not enough to feed on itself, to build on itself. And not enough for this spell."

"What spell … you still haven't told me!"

For the first time Celeste bared her teeth in a grin that Tom in his perturbation interpreted as somewhat demented.

"I'm about to attempt a conjuration so powerful, unpredictable and perilous that the Heroes Guild banned its use. Fortunately a certain order of hermits preserved the secret over the centuries. If I can control it, I will summon a force that can shatter the bonds of time and space."

"_If you can control it_ …?"

Celeste sighed. "There's the difficulty. I may need even more help to do so. And I'm afraid that's where you come in."

"Me, I don't know anything about magic!"

"You don't need to. What I require is an additional energy source that I can draw on during the casting. The life force of a suitable individual ought to do the trick."

"_Life force?_ You mean you're gonna sacrifice …"

"I hope it won't come to that. You are young, and life is strong in you. You may well survive, but unfortunately there are no guarantees." She shook her head. "I'm sorry to have deceived you, but the opportunity presented by your absurd desire to follow in my footsteps was too fortuitous to ignore."

Tom had been backing away from her for some time. "You're completely mad ... I won't do it!"

"I don't require your consent." Celeste lifted her arm, the palm of her hand flattened and held outwards. An invisible force seized Tom and hurled him against the mausoleum wall, knocking the breath from his body. "That was only the weakest version of this spell, but I've sufficient Will to repeat it over and over if necessary. Remain still and I won't have to."

Gasping, Tom gingerly regained his feet. He cast a fearful glance towards Celeste, but she was no longer looking in his direction, ignoring him as one would an insignificant bug. Slowly she stretched her arms upwards and outwards in a gesture of welcome. She spoke, and at the first word Tom held still as a statue, such was the sheer power and authority that she commanded.

"_Adeo mihi, phasmatis! Adeo mihi, spiritus mortuorum! Adeo mihi, Orbis Mundos!"_

The invocation rolled away into the fog, and for a moment there was silence. Then Major, the dog, pricked up his ears and gave a little whine. Tom strained to hear, yet could sense nothing, until he felt the faintest of vibrations through his stout wooden clogs. It grew slowly until a distinct rumbling could be heard, gathering power until the ground itself began to shake. The sound of Celeste chanting in the strange language was almost drowned out by a drumming from deep within the earth. Her voice rose and fell, at times taking on the musical tone of a singer, but the words could no longer be distinguished.

From somewhere high and far up light flared through the fog as if from the passage of a shooting star. Tom flinched and ducked as something whizzed rapidly past his head. Wisps of light were darting and circling amidst the mist, the arcs of their passage centred upon Celeste. As her summoning incantation reached its climax, the phosphorescent glow of the phantasms burned brighter while they whirled ever faster, and the air was heavy with the energy of a storm about to break.

"_Orbis Mundos, vocavi te!" _At her shout, the agitation of the ground ceased, and she knelt down with her arms cradled as though to lift something heavy. When she rose again, there shone between her fingers a scintillant gleam of light like the reflection of a star in the brightest of gems.

As soon as the petrified Tom was able to look up, he saw that she held between her hands a glowing, silvery sphere, resembling the crystal balls used by gypsy fortune tellers. But it seemed to seethe and change both in shape and colour, so that at times it warped into an oval, at others an almost formless blob of light. Tom became aware that were signs of great strain on Celeste's face, and perspiration ran from her brows.

"_Orbis Mundos, ego te praecipio!" _And then, suddenly desperate, "I cannot … _I cannot hold it!"_

The light of the sphere grew so brilliant that Tom was forced to shut his eyes. At the same time he heard Celeste's voice, half-pleading, half-commanding.

"_Spiritus mortuorum, et vitam te offero!"_

Suddenly Tom felt light as a feather, as a wisp. His physical senses seemed to be slipping away from him, as though something was tugging his soul out of his body. He opened his eyes.

He was surrounded by spectral shapes resembling those Celeste had summoned the previous night, trying to catch hold of him, to pull him in all directions. And Tom knew with the certainty of one facing death that the thing they sought for was his very life. Visions from his early childhood flashed in front of him: of playing with his sister, his mother calling him to dinner, his father lifting him up in his arms. But their faces were pale and shrouded in gloom. He sensed his vitality draining away, being chanelled in one direction only. Towards Celeste.

She spoke in a voice firm and clear.

"_Orbis Mundos, sit perfectum."_

As the darkness closed around him, Tom caught a last glimpse of Celeste's face: beautiful, bright, triumphant.

* * *

His skin was cold, ice cold, and the surface he was lying on hard and stony, pressing hard into his vertebrae. So this was what it was like to be dead? To sleep forever entombed without warmth or comfort on a bed of marble. He let out a groan of despair … then realised he'd inhaled to do so. His heart was beating, although faintly. He was still alive.

He opened his eyes. He was lying on a flat, horizontal tombstone, close to the mausoleum with the lion's head. Celeste knelt above him, wisps of fog drifting above her head. She held a vial in her hand, half full with white liquid. His first reaction was to flinch away from her.

She made a soothing gesture, smiled. "Welcome back, Tom."

He could taste the liquid in his mouth already. She brought the flask to his lips, allowing some more to drop between them. The warmth of it spread deep within his chest and stomach, then onwards to his limbs. He found himself able to sit up.

Celeste gave a satisfied nod, got to her feet. "You'll be fine. Try to stand up."

Astonishingly his legs responded. He staggered upright, and Celeste steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Wh … what happened?" His voice was hoarse at first, like a zombie talking. But he no longer felt like one. He found he could stand easily.

Celeste removed her hand, moved away from him slightly, staring as though entranced.

"I did it, Tom!" She sounded as though in the throes of ecstasy.

"You … what did you …?"

"I summoned the Orb of the Worlds. I opened a door that has been shut for centuries: the door between universes. I hold the key to time and space. Look! It moves at my command. _It moves."_

She flung an arm out dramatically. Tom followed her gesture, and started. Not a dozen feet away, a glowing silvery orb floated in mid-air. It appeared to be the very same he had seen materialise out of the ground. As he watched, it began to drift silently towards Celeste, bobbing like a balloon tugged by a child on an invisible string.

He jerked away from it instinctively. Instead of fluctuating in shape as before, it now formed a perfect sphere. Its depths were still crystalline and mysterious, and it seemed to him that it drew the eye within, as though he were staring down the wrong end of a telescope of infinite length.

Teasingly she said, "Are you afraid of it? I tell you it's perfectly under my control. My spell was strong enough to stabilise it completely."

Memory was returning to him. "How … how could you do it?"

"I told you … the power of the spirits combined with …"

"I meant … how could you … _use _me like that?" Now he had his anger, he couldn't let it go. "You burned up my life like it was some kind of fuel!"

She sounded a trifle sorrowful. "I saved your life, Tom. I didn't have to."

He felt himself becoming hysterical, barely managed to control his words. "But you were going to sacrifice me … offer me to your damn spirits. _Why?"_

She turned partially away from him, then looked back again, her dark eyes meeting his own with a sad expression.

"I asked myself the same questions the day my sister Rose died, murdered by that bastard Lord Lucien. I asked how he could do it, and why. The first is easy enough to answer: because we humans are capable of any degree of foulness to get what we want. And the second … I still don't really know after all this time. Your case is better. You still have your life, and I'm going to tell you why I took a gamble with it.

I need help Tom. Not the ordinary sort of help, the kind that only another hero can provide. I told you I lacked force of Will. To defeat someone as powerful as Lucien I need the Hero of Will at my side. I thought I'd found him, a man named Garth, but at the last moment Lucien's Commandant snatched him away from me, imprisoned him in the Spire his master is building.

There's only one way to rescue him from somewhere like that. I need to pass the test of the Crucible: eight rounds against the toughest fiends, bandits and assassins, with the prize of becoming one of Lucien's guards. And then I must enter the Spire itself. An impregnable enchanted structure in the midst of the ocean. Without magic far greater than I can call on, what chance would I have of freeing Garth from such a place guarded by so many hardened warriors?

I've lost Garth. There's only that pathetic idiot Hammer, the so-called Hero of Strength. If she had guts the size of her stomach, she'd have agreed to go with me. Anyway I'd rather go alone than listen to her wittering on. I need someone else, another Will User. But there's no one powerful enough … no one in this universe, that is.

Tom, I'll tell you the secret the hermits kept all those years. There are other universes existing alongside our own, an infinite number. Whenever events in our world reach a branch, a decision point, the universe splits creating new ones where all the different possibilities exist. That's why many of the universes are similar to our own, but they exist separately like bubbles in an infinitely large room. The only way to cross between them is to summon the Orb of the Worlds.

This I have done, as you've seen, using part of your life force to cast the spell. And somewhere amidst those infinite universes is the Will User I seek."

Tom only dimly comprehended her words. This stuff about multiple universes … it was too much, too fanciful. But his mind had seized on one important point.

"I don't give a damn."

Celeste sighed. "Haven't you listened to anything I've said?"

"Yes. And I still don't give a damn. I don't give a damn about Lucien. He's done nothing to me, and he can go on building a hundred spires as far as I'm concerned. I don't give a damn about your infinite universe bubbles either, they can burst for all I care. I only know that you tricked me to get what you wanted, just so that you could get your revenge. You lured me on, you … you Jezebel!"

She shook her head. "You men are such hypocrites. You make us the object of your unasked for lusts, then curse us with demeaning names when we disappoint you."

"The only hypocrite here is you. You betrayed me, and I'm going to make you pay for it. I'll tell everyone you're a black sorceress, a necromancer."

Again she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Tom, I really can't let you do that."

His anger still held mastery over his fear. "Just try to stop me. Everyone will see you as you really are."

He realized his mistake. Her sword had come whispering from its sheath.

"I could kill you … so easily."

Major was leaning forward, hairs pricked up to increase his apparent size, barking loudly and fiercely. Tom remained frozen, his entrails turning to ice. Every nerve screamed at him to run, but where to?

"Do it then!" It was a taunt brought on by utter desperation.

She sounded as if she was debating with herself. "It would be so simple. But I dislike killing the innocent, even an innocent fool like you, if it can be at all avoided." She pointed with her sword. "Follow me."

If he hadn't been so afraid, Tom might have had a greater appreciation of the extraordinary nature of the procession that made its way through the dank mists swirling around the ancient, lichen-stained gravestones. Celeste strode in front, her tall, erect form head and shoulders above his own cringing one, the shoulder padding and expansive folds of her robes making her seem even larger than life. Behind him came the grim, grey shape of the hound, almost treading on his heels, snuffling like a following nightmare. And last and strangest of all, the Orb floating silently and obediently in the rear.

For a time they left the burial plots to walk the smooth, time-worn paths that lay between. Then, without warning Celeste turned aside through a broken fence into a forlorn and neglected part of the cemetery. They walked amidst moss-covered, cracked tombstones and crumbling statues of angels, their half-broken wings curving protectively. A path led steeply downwards beneath a tall arch. Passing through, they emerged into an almost circular dell. Around its edges were shapes that at first seemed part of the iron fencing. As they came closer, Tom realised they were wheeled cages. The door of the nearest was ajar.

Celeste pointed again with her weapon. "Inside."

"No!" Tom tried to recoil, but a terrific growl came from behind him.

"Or Major can tear you to pieces."

He fell to his knees. "Please, I don't want to be a slave! Have mercy!"

"I'm sorry; you've left me with little choice."

The dog's breath was hot on his neck, growling like a whole pack of hell hounds. Sweat soaking his clothing, he scrambled across the muddy ground away from it. The cage loomed before him.

"Get inside, Tom." Her expression and voice were unrelenting.

He climbed inside. The cage door clanged behind, the lock clicked. He turned around to grip the bars, but Celeste was already walking away, her dog and the silver orb following at her heels, until they too vanished like phantoms into the mist.

* * *

By the arch, Celeste stopped and gave a low whistle.

"Hey Mickey, where the hell are you?"

A small, hairy, bow-legged man scuttled out from behind the masonry. He wore an eye-patch, and his features were coarse and hard.

"Got another one for me, Celeste?"

"This one has to disappear completely. I don't want to hear from him again … ever."

Mickey's voice was a throaty whisper, in which the greed was ill-disguised. "That could be difficult … and costly."

Reaching within her robe, she dropped something with a heavy chink, prompting an ugly chuckle.

"He'll give you no further trouble … I guarantee it. And me and the lads know when to keep our mouths shut."

In the half-light of the fog-wreathed moon, Celeste's long elegant shadow towered over his squat, misshapen one. She lifted him easily off the ground by his lapels.

"You'd better. Make no mistake about it. I find your services convenient … no more than that. Remember that you're all very expendable." He gave a croak as she released him.

"Now, get out of my sight."

* * *

_*I'll meet you at the cemetery gates: _A little tribute to _Morrissey. _I've been to those same gates in Manchester Southern Cemetery. Well, unless they replaced them or something.

_Spell-casting: _perhaps my old Latin master might've approved of the spell being in the classical tongue, but he would've certainly been disappointed I wasn't up to the translation myself. And not wishing to pay someone else, I've had to fall back on online translator programs, notably Google's new one. It may be a little unreliable.

_Adeo mihi: _come to me.

_Phasmatis, spirituous mortuorum_: spirits/dead souls.

_Orbis Mundos: _Orb of the Worlds.

_Vocavi te/ego te praecipio: _I summon you/I command you.

_Et vitam te offero: _I offer you this life.

_Sit perfectum: _Be whole/complete.

_Mickey the Spider: _Being away from home, I've no image of Mickey, though he's supposedly so called due to his hairy legs. I guess being bow-legged could qualify as well; basically he's not much of a looker. The eye-patch was a wild guess. And there aren't actually any slaver cages there, I know. Writer's licence.

Even though I said it wasn't a song fic, there's definitely something musical going on. _Hey Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind! _Bet no one remembers that one! And as you'll see from the title of the next chapter, where worlds collide and the story really begins! Thanks for reading thus far!*


	3. Another Page In Your Diary

Ch 3 Another Page in Your Diary

Clarice was lying head back on the cushion, lips parted. She had been … touching herself, somewhat to her surprise. Alex's lips gently brushed hers. He had a cocky look about him, though his contribution to her satisfaction had been minor. She cuddled against him for the minimum time necessary for the sake of appearances, then quickly rose to dress in her house clothes: the same light and colourful gypsy attire she had worn since adolescence.

She moved aside the partitioning curtain separating the marital bed from the smaller one where her daughter, Valerie, lay in the restful slumber that children achieve so easily. She spent several blissful minutes watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the whisper of her breath, her small face caught in peaceful repose, mirroring her own, apart from the pool of fine red hair spilling over the cushion. It was with reluctance that she took hold of her daughter's shoulder and gave it a firm shake. The child stirred, opened her eyes, and blinked with sleepy incomprehension.

Clarice allowed her time to adjust, then said, smiling, "Time to get up and have your breakfast! Your dad's making some porridge!" She planted a kiss on her daughter's cheek, gave her an affectionate squeeze.

"Mmmm, nice! Do I have to get dressed first?"

"Of course you do! And we need to brush your hair. Come over here by the mirror."

Fully awake now, the small girl joined her mother in front of the large, oak-framed looking glass.

_It's an old, old cliché, but when I look in the mirror, what do I see? _

A woman still young, but whose dark eyes already had a hint of world-weariness, of the burden of responsibility. Whose cheeks were unscarred despite many battles, except for the inevitable blue threads like spreading crow's-feet, marks of the extensive use of sorcerous power. A body that had remained lithe, though somewhat filled out by motherhood. _Perhaps I need to eat more celery._

Her daughter shared many of her features: had the same eyes, upturned nose, and wide full-lipped mouth. Perhaps it was with an awareness of the main difference that the child reached out to touch her mother's unbound, dark brown locks.

"Mummy, you have the most beautiful hair in the world. And you're prettier than all the other mummies!"

Clarice gave her another brief hug. "If that's true, then that must be why you're the prettiest little girl in the world." She began to brush her daughter's russet hair with swift, efficient strokes.

Giving the occasional yelp, Valerie asked, with a hint of whininess, "Will you teach me another spell today?"

"If I have time, darling."

"Which spell will you teach me?"

"One that will make you good all day long."

She screwed up her face to consider this. "Like tofu does?"

"Exactly like that."

"Nnn … can you teach me one to turn Joey Simpson into a frog instead?"

"Maybe tomorrow I will, darling."

* * *

Clarice gave a final lingering glance to where Valerie was playing with Rex amongst the bright flowers of her garden. Then she turned to walk briskly along Fairfax road, giving only the briefest acknowledgement to the other wealthy residents that came forward to greet her. She still felt rather uncomfortable amongst the well-to-do. Were it not for her family, she would have preferred a dwelling place in one of the humbler parts of Bowerstone, amidst folk closer in resemblance to the warm and earthy gypsy folk she had spent her childhood with.

So she stopped immediately to converse with Frank the crate carrier, his dirt-stained clothes showing that he had already completed several jobs despite the early hour.

"Ah, Clarice! You're about some heroing today, I see!"

Clarice had changed into her most expensive Will-user outfit, shimmering white robes, and loose trousers, edged, like her Archmage cap, with gold. In actuality, she considered them entirely unsuitable for adventuring. Although purchased at a bargain price in Bowerstone Old Town, she had no wish to get them mud-stained and torn just to look good in front of some bandits she was about to blast with magic. However the day's business seemed to require her most impressive attire.

"Good morning, Frank, how are your family?" She had been on first name terms with the robust working man for years now.

"Mostly good, thanking you. Though …" with noticeable hesitation "we've been suffering some damp in the house lately, and little Jessie's been taken with the sniffles. Probably pass soon enough."

"Oh, Frank, why in the world didn't you tell me before?" She reached for the pouch at her hip. "Here's enough gold to get Jessie a healing potion from the alchemists, and hire some builders to deal with the damp."

"Ah, you don't need to do that, Clarice, what with all the help you give folks already, and then you having to take care of your own family too …"

"No, don't worry yourself on that score. I just earned a bounty on some hobbes, so I can easily spare you the money." This was a lie. She'd been far too busy keeping the roads clear of regular bandits to embark on any such lucrative contracts. She hadn't even had the time to do any smithy work. Nevertheless she thrust the heavy bag into his hands chinking with the gold inside.

"Oh, you're a saint! Well if you can really afford it … I'm sure it'll do my little girl the world of good."

The immediate warm glow of satisfaction Clarice felt as she continued onwards towards the town square was slightly offset by the worrying lack of financial ballast on her hip. Therese had always said that heroes should try to change the world for the better. On the other hand, she'd also gently insisted on the importance of completing the search for the Hero of Will. Money had often been necessary to help with quests, and now she'd given away almost half of her hard-earned gold.

Clarice shook her head impatiently to clear away the unsettling thought. How could the doing of an honourable deed result in evil consequences? It would all sort itself out somehow; she only needed to have faith.

"Good morning, Conjurer!"

Rosy rays of sunshine lit up the square with its central clock tower, slanting towards the bridge over the Bower River, and the fortified outer walls of the town. The rolling, hearty voice of the speaker rung out across the plaza, mostly empty apart from a few early shoppers and gossips grouped around the food stalls. He was dressed impressively in a three-cornered hat and frock coat, holding the clapper of his bell silent.

"Morning James." Clarice's greeting to the town crier was a little unenthusiastic.

"Any titles I can bestow on you today?"

"Well, now that you mention it …" Clarice gave a slight wince.

"Yes?"

"That present one … don't you feel it … lacks a little something?"

James tugged at his mutton chop whiskers in agitation. "But it's one of the oldest traditional titles bestowed upon Will Users of heroic status. _Conjurer_." He gave the syllables a full-throated roll. "Is that not simply dripping with distinction?"

"Yes, in a way. And yet … consider how much more dignified something like …" she nerved herself, "_Sorceress_ or even _Archmage_ might sound."

The town crier's expression froze into one of disdain. "Those are not monikers approved by the Crier's Guild!"

"No … but perhaps after all these centuries, it could be … time for a change." Clarice could hear the eggshells she'd been treading on crunching away like newborn chicks between a Shadow Worshipper's molars.

His face remained stony. "Perhaps you would like to return to your former title of _Dumpling_?"

"No, really … I …"

"_Chicken-chaser?_"

"Uh …"

"Or even plain _Sparrow_?"

"I'll … be about my business."

"And I mine." A little icily, he added, "If novelty is what you seek, practice your swording a little more, and perchance I'll be able to call you _Blade_."

It was with relief that Clarice attained the sanctuary of _The Cow and Corset_. Fortunately any very early or very late revellers were too sozzled to harass her with more than a few jovial shouts of "Yo, Conjurer!"

"You're here early, Clarice."

"You know what they say about early birds, Bill." Clarice acknowledged the owner of Bowerstone's most popular tavern with a wink. "I'll take a glass of Spring Water, please."

Sucking air through his teeth, the landlord slid a crystal clear bottle along the bar. "Your purity is a shining example, hero," he said. "Though not, I hope, to my customers. A little bit of corruption helps keep my profit margins high."

"I'm not here to judge anyone, Bill," Clarice smiled. "I've important business to transact." Lowering her voice, she asked, "Does Jeeves still lodge on the premises?"

"Aye, that he does." Bill spoke from the side of his mouth. "And if I wasn't chary of offending one who used to be Lord Lucien's man, I'd have put him out the door by now. But I reckon he's fallen out of favour. Bitter he speaks these days against Lucien and how he's treated him. Most folks are too afeared to listen when he rants on. Reckon he's getting a bit cracked."

Clarice reached out to give the landlord's hand a grateful squeeze, at which he looked surprised. "Thanks, Bill," she said with warmth. "That's exactly what I needed to know."

As she mounted the steps to the first floor, Clarice's thoughts drifted back through the years. How long it seemed since the man she now sought out had escorted her into the bowels of Fairfax Castle. Then she'd been a small, bewildered seven-year-old gripping tightly to her sister's hand, her mind boggling at the magnificence of the castle interior: the suits of armour, tapestried walls, imposing archways and high windows. To an urchin who knew little but cold, hunger and hard knocks it seemed the fulfilment of a dream to be allowed within the hallowed precincts. And then to speak with Lord Lucien himself! So the magic music box had worked its charm. And how it had betrayed her hopes!

A hot rage surged through Clarice, and she tightened her grip on her sword hilt. This man, this tool of Lucien, had been part of it. She ought to repay him in full measure. But how could she, while she still needed his help?

The room was hardly more than a darkened cubbyhole tucked away at the top of the stairs. Within the blackness a pair of cunning eyes gleamed. A hunched, bent form shuffled forward. Lucien's aged former butler was shrunken by his years, like an old monkey kept in a cage, getting more and more twisted and bitter. As he drew near, Clarice felt a profound disgust. His breath was foul, and stank of spirits.

"Ah, the Hero of Bowerstone!" The sneer in his voice set her teeth on edge. "To what do I owe a visit from such an illustrious personage? And one so noble too!"

"Let's not play games, _old man._" For once she felt no shame in using such a tone of disrespect to the elderly. "You know very well what I want of you."

"Of course, of course!" he gloated. "Lucien's diary, what else? I've heard how you've been plotting with that crafty witch and that loose-lipped ex-monk."

Hammer! The woman had been unable to keep a guard on her tongue! No wonder Therese had hidden her away in the Chamber of Fate! Alerting Lucien that they were preparing to move against him was not going to help their cause. The rumours must spread no further.

Clarice couldn't help feeling sympathy for Hammer. She too had lost the person she held most dear, the Abbot of Oakfield, to Lucien's murderous minions, and had her own reasons for wanting revenge. But if only she could resist the urge to express every single one of her thoughts verbally! It was irritating, and dangerous. Lucien's spies were everywhere.

She tried to adopt an attitude of controlled intimidation. It wasn't something she was used to. "You're trying my patience, old man."

"Oh, but you have plenty of that, don't you hero? You with your code of honour and virtue. Lucien, for all his faults, at least realised that men of true worth can ignore nonsense like morality and scruples. But I'm finished with him. I simply wish to live out my time in a degree of comfort, perhaps even luxury. Secure that for me, and the prize is yours."

"How much do you want?"

His eyes glittered with cupidity. "A thousand gold pieces!"

"A thousand! I couldn't possibly ..."

"Your sword alone's worth more than that!"

"I need my sword!"

_But do I? _Clarice thought desperately. _My magic is more important than weaponry. I could exchange steel for iron. _But the humiliation of selling her sword to pay this man! No, a hundred times no!

"I'll give you five hundred," she grated. "That's all the gold I have."

"Not nearly enough!" he snapped, "Are you hero or pauper? Find some more, then come back. The diary will still be waiting."

"I need to see it now!"

Jeeves' expression became yet more unpleasant, and he looked her up and down with calculation. "I can see how desperate you are. Perhaps we can come to some ... arrangement. I'll let you have it for five hundred... and the pleasure of having you kneel at my feet. You know ..." he gave a crude chuckle, "what I require you to do when you're down there."

Clarice experienced a sick feeling. "You disgusting old man! Who do you think I am?"

"Oh, I know precisely who you are. To have the Hero of Bowerstone ... the young, beautiful, pure, virtuous Hero of Bowerstone, go down on her knees to perform this service for me ... that might just be worth another five hundred gold pieces. I'm sure its something I'll always remember." He gave an evil leer. "And I doubt you'll ever forget it either. That adds an extra piquancy to the pleasure, of course."

Clarice felt utterly revolted. To humiliate herself in this way, to surrender herself to this vile old man in a way she was reluctant to do even with her husband, it was not to be born! Forgetting all her usual restraint, she seized his shoulders and slammed him against the wall.

"Do you imagine I'm going to kneel to an accomplice to my sister's murder! I'll kill you first!"

For the first time Jeeves seemed ruffled, and even alarmed. "Murder? What are you talking about?"

She shook him repeatedly. "Lucien! He killed Rose when she was only a child! He would've killed me too! You were there! You brought us in!" Clarice's breathing was loud, her heart hammering. The memory had returned raw. Rose had stepped so trustingly into the circle of power. And Lucien had so casually snuffed out her life. For a moment her desire for revenge threatened to override everything ... she wanted to wreak it on this man. She shifted her grip to Jeeves' throat, began to choke him.

"You ... you can't do this ... I'm unarmed ... you're ...!" Jeeves spluttered.

_It's a crime to kill the innocent! _The admonition went through her head. But Jeeves wasn't innocent. She tightened her grip.

He managed to gasp out, "Kill me ... and you'll never see that diary!"

Reason reasserted itself. She must get the diary, or the real target of her vengeance, Lucien himself, might escape her. Nothing else was more important. With a snarl, she reluctantly released Jeeves, thrust him away from her.

Sucking in air, and rubbing his neck, he growled, "The diary's buried where you'll never find it. You know my terms. Come back when you're prepared to meet them ... one way or another."

* * *

Clarice half-ran, half-staggered out of _The Cow and Corset. _Bending over with the effort of hyperventilation, she sucked in the fresh morning air in an attempt to rid her lungs and mind of the reek of Jeeves' dark and evil-smelling room. But the anger, humiliation and the memories evoked would not leave her so easily. He had tried to treat her like a low-grade whore, and she'd completely lost her head and her temper, almost as if she'd become a different person. He'd left her feeling soiled and tainted, while the diary remained frustratingly out of her possession.

To recover her composure, she walked to the centre of the square, standing beneath the arches of the clock tower. Its sudden musical chime brought her to attention. Time was passing, and she was no nearer to bringing about her revenge. Her eyes turned to look above the gabled roofs to where Fairfax Castle loomed like a menacing cloud over the town, turret after turret, battlement upon battlement. A permanent reminder of the power and authority of its absent owner.

She shook her fist in its direction. _One day, Lucien, I will pay you out a thousand times for what you've made me suffer!_

The clock ceased chiming at the ninth stroke. Clarice's shoulders slumped. She would need to earn a lot more gold to satisfy the ex-butler's greed. Perhaps a bounty would be available from the Sheriff. She could work at the nearby smithy instead, but what had originally seemed like good, honest toil had become increasingly a drudge.

Abstractedly contemplating these alternatives, she strolled towards the gift stall. At least she could afford to buy Valerie a rag doll. Although her daughter would probably use it to pretend to cast a hoodoo on Joey Simpson. Good!

"Ah, my favourite customer!"

Whether it was because she had a near identical name to her daughter, or for some other reason, Valery, the owner of the gift shop, had always been particularly friendly towards Clarice. She was a handsome looking woman in her mid-thirties. The individually tailored design of her deep blue robes and elaborately stylish hat revealed her status as a prosperous member of Bowerstone's upper middle class. As usual Clarice caught the sweet and subtle scent of Pixie's Tears perfume, one of the premium products of the stall.

Valery made a small bow and a graceful gesture with her hand. "I've just received a delivery from Bowerstone's finest artisan. This magnificent gold necklace would grace the neck of royalty or even that of our most famous heroine. Perhaps you would care to try it on?"

Looking at the purity of the gold and the inset sapphires, Clarice was sorely tempted, even though she knew spending her money on such exquisite but useless objects would not do in the current circumstances. Valery moved behind her, pressing close to drape the necklace around her throat. While adjusting its position, the jeweller brushed against Clarice's bosom, apparently by accident, but it was enough to bring a blush to her cheek.

Valery placed her hand on Clarice's shoulder, to turn her so that she could look at herself in the shop's mirror. In doing so, she brought her cheek near to Clarice's own.

"You look as beautiful as a princess, don't you think?"

Clarice was inclined to agree, but she was more troubled at the thoughts and sensations that Valery's closeness and touch had awakened. Her memories from earlier in the morning returned. _But it wa__s wrong to__ …_

Moving to free herself from the shopkeeper's grasp, she removed the necklace, then said, a little abruptly, "I'm sorry, its lovely, but I can't afford to buy something so expensive at the present time. I've come to buy my little girl a poppet."

Valery shrugged, and handed her a limp rag doll. "For a girl as sweet as yours I'll charge no more than five in gold." Pausing, she added in a lower tone, "Your husband ought to buy you a worthier gift. But spending as much time as he does in _The Cow, _perhaps he can ill afford the presents his wife deserves."

"Alex has been frequenting the tavern?" Clarice affected surprise while counting out the coins. In fact she knew very well about Alex's drinking habits from the occasions when he'd returned home extremely drunk, waking her in order to satisfy his lust. Sometimes she found his unusually forceful behaviour arousing, but more often disgusting.

Valery raised her eyebrows. "You didn't know? Strange because I heard that, when deep in his cups, he invariably promises to 'give that frigid wife of mine a good seeing to' when he gets home. Maybe he isn't able to make good his boasts by the time he does."

Clarice flushed scarlet, and would have departed, but for Valery placing a hand on her arm. "Clarice, if you need a friend, you know my door's always open."

Their eyes met for a long moment. Clarice was about to speak, when a loud scream rent the air. It was followed by more yells and shouts, the wailing of children and a single gunshot.

"What in the name of Skorm was that!?" Valery exclaimed. Clarice was already turning away from her, drawing her own pistol, to face towards the far end of the square from where the alarm had arisen.

Her practised ear had already identified the report as being from a flintlock pistol such as the town militia employed. She was thus unsurprised to see, amongst a crowd of Bowerstone citizens fleeing in panic and disorder, Jeff the guard dashing in her direction. His normally placid, beefy countenance was contorted with barely-controlled terror.

"Hero, come quickly! An 'orrible and evil manifestation has arisen in the square! The citizens are afrighted! Eric the Pie man's already soiled himself with fear!"

"What kind of manifestation?" She could see nothing amidst the scene of confusion.

"Tis a strange, floating demon of some sort. Like a huge, terrible, bright eye! It came out of nowhere."

_A floating eye? _Clarice immediately thought of the flying Shards employed by Lucien to transport his minions. One of these magical obelisks had been used by the Commandant to steal away Garth from under her nose. Could this be some kind of similar spying device? But why materialise it in such an obvious place?

"What's it doing?"

"Naught as yet, but wait not until it works some dreadful spell upon us. The Sheriff even now holds it at bay."

"Don't worry, Jeff, I''ll deal with it." For an instant Clarice contemplated her pistol. _There's no finer weapon to be found between Oakfield and the Bandit Coast … _but this looked like a time for sorcery, not swords or guns. She swiftly holstered the flintlock and advanced quickly and confidently, yet with an edge of caution. She was, to her knowledge, the second most powerful Will-user in the whole of Albion. She should be prepared to handle almost any normal threat. This however sounded like something beyond her experience … though in the back of her mind she wondered whether she'd heard of such an object before. Or _read _about it ...

Beyond the clock tower the square was mostly clear of fleeing townsfolk. A second member of the militia was blocking the Bower Bridge, while the Sheriff and a third guard had established a cordon around the presumed menace, their sabres drawn and ready. The nearest civilians were Seth, the Alchemist, staring fascinated through his monocle, and Eric the pie-man, who was peeing over the side of the river wharf.

"Clarice, thank goodness you're here!" Usually a reassuring presence in his broad, feathered hat and greatcoat, the Sheriff was trying his best to conceal his apprehension, and not succeeding very well. "We've no experience of dealing with a demon from another world. We feared it might try a spell or play some kind of foul trickery upon us."

"It's all right, Sheriff. I'll make sure it can't do us any harm." Clarice spoke with conviction, although she was thinking that she had exactly the same acquaintance with demons as the militia … none whatsoever. Even relatively common fiends, like Balverines, she had never before encountered, at least not in their true animal form. And as for a malignant spirit from a different plane of existence … but how did the Sheriff know it was such?

Jeff the guard's description was not entirely accurate. The object in front of her bore some resemblance to an eye in that it was spherical. Otherwise it was much better depicted as a ball of glassy substance about twelve inches in diameter, with the most remarkable aspect being that it was bobbing several feet off the floor. Nevertheless Clarice could appreciate why the man had spoken thus. She had an uncanny feeling that the sphere was in some way looking at them. Perhaps it was the way it rotated this way and that, or the strange mirror like depths which seemed to draw the viewer to some far off perspective.

_If its Lucien's spy device, it mustn't be allowed to report anything important. Best to destroy it while I've got the chance. _In her mind, Clarice was already ordering her spells. Of the two most advanced, she selected _Blades_ to cast at the fourth and highest level of power, due to its greater damage when used against a single target and its appropriateness against something seemingly made of glass._ Shock_ she relegated to the third level; its stunning electrical effect was untested against such an object. _Force Push_ and _Time Control _occupied the lowest slots, ready to gain her space and valuable seconds should she be unable to charge her Will to its highest level before she was attacked. Her other spells were held in reserve, though none could completely shield her from physical or magical harm. Her last lines of defence lay in her pistol and sword. The latter she relied on only when desperate, for there lay her greatest weakness. But the Town crier's taunt was only half-true. She practiced with her weapons as often as her busy life permitted, yet when she so seldom needed them in battle, it was hard for her to reach the mastery that the heroes of legend had attained. Without her spells to even the odds, it was doubtful she would compare well against fabled foes of the past like Jack of Blades or Scythe. Even Hammer she might struggle to outmatch in hand-to-hand combat.

These meditations and mental preparations occupied only an instant. Her thoughts returned to the Sheriff's puzzling comments.

"Have you seen such a thing before, Sheriff? Why do you think its come from outside Albion?"

"Nay, Clarice, I've never seen the like!" He pulled his forked beard doubtfully. "But it confessed its other-worldly origins from its own mouth … even if it don't appear to have one."

"It speaks?"

"That it does, though I would not be trusting such siren voices as come from demons. Especially one that turns to abuse when thwarted."

"How did it abuse you?"

"Why it asked me where the Hero of Bowerstone was, and when I said it'd find out to its pain soon enough, it cursed me in a number of insulting terms."

"It asked you where to find me?" As Clarice spoke these words, the sphere suddenly rose to eye-level, and surged towards her until it was merely three feet away. The Sheriff and his guard leapt backwards shouting imprecations and warnings.

"I told him he was an idiot! I haven't got all day to waste on buffoons like him. I want to talk to the Hero of Bowerstone."

The voice from the sphere was nothing like Clarice imagined a demon's might sound. It was a young woman's voice, bright and cheerful. Sheer surprise caused her to interrupt charging her Will. She released it at the lowest level of Time Control, the world around her seeming to slow, the militia men's mouths opening and closing like fishes'.

"Weelll … thaat … waass … a … neeat … triick." This time the words from the sphere were elongated by the time distortion, making it sound something like a demon's after all. The slow time bubble ended abruptly, and the woman's voice resumed as breezily as before. "While I'm a little impressed, I'm afraid attempting to attack the Orb is another waste of time. Its probably invulnerable in your universe, and in any case, I'm not your enemy."

Clarice put her hand to her head. So many odd circumstances had left it buzzing. She tried to sort through the staggering possibilities that her mind was trying to cope with.

"You've come from another universe? And you want to speak with me?"

"More than that, I'm here to ask for your help," the voice continued nonchalantly. "If you're the Hero of Bowerstone, of course."

"I _am _the Hero of Bowerstone," Clarice said in a dazed tone. "What help do you need, and why have you come to ask me?"

"If you don't mind, we won't go into that fully straight away. I've already lost enough time explaining things in the other worlds I've visited. Before we get down to business, I need to know if you're up to the job. I require the assistance of a very powerful Will User."

Clarice still felt she was in a waking dream, but responded instinctively, despite the bizarre nature of the conversation. "I _do _mind. Especially if you're planning on disappearing again without an explanation. But I am considered to be the best Will User in Albion, with only one exception."

"That exception being Garth, naturally," the woman's voice cut in. "Who is currently imprisoned in the Spire, and thus unavailable."

Clarice blinked. "How do you know about him?"

"The same way I know about you. We're all from very similar time lines. I'm only able to search through the ones that precede mine. So I can take a fair guess at what things are like in your world."

"Time lines? I'm sorry, this is becoming so confusing ..."

"Don't worry too much about that for now!" the voice suggested cheerily. "Just tell me what you're capable of; in terms of spell-casting, that is."

"I can cast Shock and Blades to the fourth level of power," Clarice began with pride. "And also Inferno to the third … wait … I don't know yet whether I can trust you!"

Ignoring her protestations, the voice exclaimed, "You can use _both_ at the _Fourth_ Level! At this stage of the time line, that's remarkable! You must have devoted a massive amount of effort to Will use. Oh, I've really hit the mother-lode here!"

Clarice was beginning to find speaking to the disembodied voice a trifle irritating."Look, even if that's true, I'm not about to tell you all my secrets."

The voice sounded amused. "I think you'll find keeping secrets from me extremely difficult. I probably know most of them already. One more question. Can you shoot the weapons from a Hollow Man's hands, blow his head off and kill him dead for good?"

Clarice considered. Like everything she'd heard so far, the question seemed slightly insane. "I can shoot one in the head twice, which kills them as well as any other method."

The voice chuckled. "Good enough! You'll do! Even if you're as slow and clumsy a fighter as Hammer, you'll do. No one I've met so far comes even close to your spell abilities." Another giggle. "Are you some kind of monk?"

"What are you implying?" Clarice felt affronted. Was the seemingly all-knowing voice mocking her life-style? And her remarks about Hammer sounded insulting. The ex-monk could not really be considered clumsy, except in matters of diplomacy, and her signature weapon was of necessity slower but more powerful.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm telling you that you're the hero that I've been looking for. Now if you'll just enter the Orb, we can ..."

"Wait a moment! Haven't you forgotten something?"

"Quite possibly, but what of it?"

"I haven't agreed to help you. And I won't until you tell me more about who you are, and what you want me to do."

"I'll explain everything when you enter the Orb. You just need to reach out and touch it."

"No! I want to know now!"

The voice sighed. "You don't trust me? And I thought we'd been getting on so well. All right. My name is Celeste. What's yours?"

"Clarice. The Conj … the Sorceress."

"See, like I said, similar but not quite the same. So now that we're acquainted, can you please touch the Orb?"

"No! First I want you to tell me exactly _who you are!"_

A pause followed. Then there came a peal of silvery laughter. Clarice shivered. It was the same laughter that had rang out across centuries of time, from the age of gods and legends, charged with the power that only a hero of true blood possessed.

"You want to know who I am? You know already. I'm the Hero of Bowerstone!"

* * *

*_Another Page in Your Diary: _this chapter's lyrical title comes to you courtesy of _Yazoo, _fronted by Alison Moyet, and who also wrote the lyrics for _Nobody's Diary._ Somehow I think she'd like this kind of story.

_A thousand gold pieces: _as Wiki points out, this may sound like a princely sum but, even in a low game economy, its pretty paltry when you consider prices in Bowerstone, especially for property. You'll likely be hearing more from me on this, but for now you can assume it _is _a very significant amount of money in Clarice's world.

_Good honest toil: _I used to quite like working at the Blacksmith, and it certainly set me up money-wise. But then level five got ridiculously fast and difficult, so I no longer bothered.

_In the name of Skorm: _using the name of this ancient 'dark' god seems more appropriate for an oath, equivalent to 'what the Devil?!"

_The Fourth Level: _I'd say that possessing two fourth level spells is strong for a Will User at this stage of the main quest. I was still using spells of that power when I reached the Spire, and I didn't drop once! Of course there's one more spell level beyond that, but it does require a significantly larger chunk of experience. Personally I prefer to spend my points on a variety of spells rather than putting all my eggs in one basket.

_Can you shoot the weapons from a Hollow man's hands? _This x-box live achievement is difficult for anyone unable to individually target body locations with a gun. Thus it would be a good test of someone's Skill.

I've never particularly noticed whether the names of prominent citizens (shop keepers, guards etc.) are standard in the game, like those of important quest-based characters, or randomised like those of 'ordinary' people. Whichever is the case, I've kept or changed names according to what felt right for that character. Quest characters should be accurately named, so let me know if they aren't!

Celeste and Clarice get better acquainted in the next chapter!*


	4. The Orb

Ch 4 The Orb

"_The Hero of Bowerstone?" _Clarice echoed unbelievingly. "That's impossible! _I'm _the Hero of Bowerstone."

"Yes." Celeste sighed. "I was afraid that would be your reaction, which is why I put off telling you until I was sure you could help me." Her voice became almost kindly. "I'm sure this is going to be as difficult for you as it was for me the first time – and for all the others I've met. So I'll try to put it simply. In my universe I'm Celeste, the Hero of Bowerstone. In yours, you're Clarice; also the Hero of Bowerstone. We're the same person, you see, but in parallel universes ..." She halted. "Sorry, I said I'd keep it simple, but unfortunately its hard to avoid using terms like that."

"We're … the same person?"

"Almost. There will be certain differences, just as the universes we inhabit are not quite the same."

"How can that be possible? That there are two of us … wait … didn't you mention _the others? _Oh, Avo protect me!"

"Clarice! Just … calm down a moment. I can explain how it works, but it'll be much easier if you've read a book called _Orbs and the Multiworlds. _Phil should sell it in his store across the square."

"You mean_ Phillippa_, the book seller?"

"Whoops! That's an example of what I'm talking about! You see, in my parallel universe the store owner is male, in yours she's female. Well, can you remember reading the book?"

Clarice thought back. The first appearance of the Orb had tweaked her memory. Now she realised why. Phillippa had somehow persuaded her to buy the book, but the theories in it had been so ridiculous … or so she'd thought at the time … that she'd considered it a complete waste of money.

"I remember. It was something about how every choice we make creates a new universe. In each of them, we can be different people, sometimes even the opposite sex. And there were supposed to be Orbs which allow contact between these universes. But the book admitted their existence could be a complete flight of fantasy!"

"Seeing is believing, isn't it? Well, you seemed to have grasped the general idea. At some time in the past, we were one and the same person. Then a decision we made split our universes apart. And now we're separate people, though with many similarities between ourselves and the worlds we inhabit."

"A decision … which decision?"

"It could be any one of a thousand, a million even. Perhaps we'll never find out. Whatever it was, it was enough to send us down different paths in our lives, so that you concentrated on improving your Will to a much greater extent than me. And, to return to our business, that's why I need you now."

"But why can't you ..."

Celeste's voice grew impatient again. "Clarice! I understand that you've got a hundred questions to ask. But I'm not wasting time answering them until you show some commitment to helping me. Touch the Orb!"

Clarice said wavering, "You're still expecting me to trust you."

"Do you trust yourself? I'm you, more or less, as you'll see shortly! Look, believe this at least; you'll still have the choice to return to your universe after you enter the Orb. And things will be a lot clearer. Just touch it, please!"

"I ..."

Celeste said tauntingly, "Perhaps you've also turned into the kind of indecisive, fearful sort of person that's of no use to anyone. Perhaps I shouldn't waste any more of my time on you."

The anger and frustration that had been boiling in the subconscious part of Clarice's mind surged to the surface all at once. Before she realised what she was doing, she'd reached out towards the glittering object.

Instantly Bowerstone Town Square dissolved around her, along with the rest of her universe.

To be replaced by a world of glass.

"Ha! I thought I'd touched a raw nerve!"

She was reminded of the time when a travelling fair had set up near Bower Lake, and she'd visited the Hall of Mirrors. Shimmering surfaces were everywhere, distorting the light in an endless succession of reflections. The size of the area might have been no more than that of her front room, or it might have been infinite. The sudden transition would've been bewildering in itself, but not nearly as completely shocking as the vision before her.

"Oh my god!"

It was like looking through a window framed in crystal. Beyond it she could see the head and upper torso of a woman, wearing robes similar to her own, though instead of pure white, they were dyed a deep sky blue.

But the face was her own, unmistakably.

The positioning of the window within this realm of mirrors might have suggested it was another deceptive duplication of her own image. Clarice was almost certain it was not. For though there could be no doubt that she was looking at someone so like herself as to be her twin, there were differences, some subtle, some quite obvious.

Most strikingly the woman's hair was red, not brown, and her make-up was bold, dark eye-shadow and scarlet lipstick, instead of the lighter, more natural shades that Clarice favoured. Her expression was relaxed and confident rather than alarmed but it was the finer details of her demeanour that made the most impact on Clarice's already stunned mind.

The hints of world-weariness she'd observed in the looking glass earlier were entirely absent. Instead an air of satisfaction, a youthful joie de vivre suggested that her other self either had none of the cares which marked her own face, or made light of them. Her complexion had a softer fullness, on which the signs of good living were apparent. Clarice had seen the same expression of contentment, of almost bored serenity, on the faces of the wealthier inhabitants of Bowerstone, and had been inclined to dismiss it with contempt. Now she was suddenly consumed by a desire to know how someone so intimately related to her could seem so carefree, so light hearted.

To further confirm that her eyes weren't playing tricks, Celeste spoke again. "I told you, didn't I? Seeing _is _believing!"

Shaking her head in wonderment, Clarice said. "It … it's true, isn't it. You are ..." Her voice sounded peculiar to her own ears.

"Yes. Its like looking in the mirror, isn't it? Well, almost."

"Your hair … its the same colour as my daughter's. Exactly."

"That's an interesting coincidence … if it is one. It's dyed, of course. The natural colour is dark brown like yours. Or at least ..." she gave a mischievous grin "like yours was _before _you came here."

"Before?" Puzzled Clarice instinctively reached up to touch her hair. The locks hung to her shoulders in a way which felt odd … and they were golden. At the same time she became aware of another strange sensation; her body seemed different, as though she'd lost several inches in height, while her girth and breasts had grown in size.

"What … what have you done to me?" Her voice tone was definitely slightly lower than normal.

Celeste was still grinning. "Me? Nothing. Its the Orb. Its given you a new body."

"_What!?"_

"Don't freak out! There's no need to be alarmed."

"_No need? _Are you joking? You didn't tell me this would happen!" Clarice felt her face in distress. She was sure that her nose and cheek-bones weren't the same. "Please, tell me how I can get back to how I was!"

"Don't worry, you'll get your old body back when you return to your own universe. Until then, I'm afraid you'll have to put up with this one. And I didn't tell you because I thought it might put you off entering the Orb. You'll soon get accustomed to the idea."

"But _why? _Why must I?" Clarice continued to frantically explore the various parts of her body. Her clothes had changed as well. A red kerchief was wound around her throat, and a tight-fitting navy blue bodice with gold trim displayed her fuller cleavage. White sleeves emerged beneath a matching blue cape, and the outfit was completed with light, tan trousers and black, calf-length boots. It was the kind of flamboyant outfit she would have been inclined to wear when she was starting out as an adventurer.

Celeste cleared her throat, and adopted a lecturing stance, gesturing with her hands in an explanatory fashion. "According to the lore of the monks who told me about the Orbs, it isn't possible for any physical material to travel from one universe to another. Or rather it is, but if it ever happened both universes would be destroyed in a terrible catastrophe. You wouldn't want that, would you? Instead the Orb has given you a body and clothing made out of the same substance as the universe you're entering. But your mind and your skills, including your magical powers, should be intact and unaltered." She shrugged. "It looks a perfectly good body to me, quite attractive in a wholesome kind of way, though I expect it'll feel smaller than what you're used to. Take a peek in the window to the side there, and you'll see what you look like, along with some other bodies you could choose if you want. I think the Orb's selected the one it thought was the most suitable."

"The one it _thought?_" Clarice turned in the direction Celeste was pointing. This time she was confronted by a stranger, a woman with blue eyes and blonde hair parted and bobbed to shoulder length. She had a good-natured, almost matronly look, and she was wearing the same dashing apparel. More than anything else it convinced Clarice that this was the true mirror of her present appearance.

Celeste gave a chuckle. "Evidently the Orb believes you're a _nice_, clean-living kind of person. But feel free to pick another you're more comfortable with; you just need to reach out with your mind."

Behind the blonde woman were other faces, arranged as though in a gallery. As Clarice concentrated on them, they grew larger and moved into the foreground. For the most part she found them uncongenial. Some had a narrow-eyed, evil look, and an appearance of hungry depravity. More than half were men. The only other female that slightly appealed looked sexually vivacious, but with a strong hint of cruelty. Clarice suspected Celeste would tease her whatever choice she made.

True to form, her alter ego gave a sly wink. "How about trying a man's body for a change? You could find out what its like to have a penis!"

Clarice blushed crimson. Not so much at the lewd manner of Celeste's suggestion, but because it came close to guessing at her own secret feeling of curiosity. She summoned up as much dignity as she was able.

"I suppose this body will have to do. I've had enough changes to cope with already."

"Well you know best, though I've a hunch you'll have plenty more to deal with in future. So, if there's nothing further to detain us …?"

"Wait!" Clarice said hastily. "I still can't understand why you need my help. You have your own life and responsibilities just like me. Why don't you simply concentrate on improving your magic powers, if you need them as badly as you say?"

For the first time Celeste's expression became a trifle less cock-sure. "It isn't quite as easy as that, Clarice. As you must know, the only effective way to improve our powers of Will is to use them in battle. The opponents I need to match myself against would take only small harm from the low level of magic I can summon. The temptation to finish them using my sword or gun would be too much, especially in a dangerous combat. Building my Will up that way would take too long. How much better to have someone at my side whose abilities complement my own, and who can teach me to use magic more effectively."

"Well then use Strength and Skill alone, if that's where your inclination lies. You've obviously managed well enough up till now."

"It's true that I have so far. Therese says the tasks before me require something more, and I'm inclined to believe her this time. Have you heard of the Crucible?"

A chill thrilled up Clarice's spine, a mixture of excitement and apprehension. "The Arena in Westcliff? Where adventurers run the gauntlet against impossible odds, and are slaughtered for the entertainment of the thieves and low lifes that live there? Of course, I've heard of it, but why on earth ..."

"The odds aren't impossible, Clarice." Celeste sounded reproving. "Certainly not for a hero. Mad Dog McGraw, who helps run the place, won through once, and he's not even of hero blood."

"But he was the greatest champion ever! And I've heard that Lucien's made it even tougher since that time."

"Exactly. He's made it into a test of becoming a Spire guard. Hardly anyone qualifies but the strongest and most cunning. And the Spire is where I need to go to rescue Garth. You can see now why I need your help. Against so many deadly opponents, magic will greatly shift the odds in our favour."

Clarice shivered. "We'll be lucky to get anywhere near Westcliff. There's scores of bandits in the way, and rumour has it the area's infested by Balverines."

Celeste drew herself up proudly. "There I have the advantage over you. I've already made it to Westcliff. And Balverines aren't so dangerous if you fight them one or two at a time."

Clarice raised her eyebrows. "That's not what I've heard. Still if you find them so easy to defeat, you obviously don't need me at all."

Celeste looked a little shamefaced. "I had some help from that idiot Hammer. But she was really just covering my back; I did most of the fighting. And we only ended up in the Howling Halls because the stupid smuck insisted on helping a townswoman rescue her son. Turned out she was a White Balverine."

"Skorm's blood, no!"

"All right, I admit things got a bit near the nub, and we certainly aren't walking into that death-trap again. But together we can make it through all the way, I know we can."

"Even if we can ..." Clarice said dubiously. "I can't just turn aside from my own quest. Jeeves won't give me Lucien's diary, and I'm afraid if I don't get it soon, Lucien's going to find out and stop me, probably by killing Jeeves."

"Why in the world couldn't you get it?" Celeste exploded. "He only wanted a thousand gold pieces, for Avo's sake!"

"That's more than I can afford without selling my weapons and equipment." Clarice looked downwards in embarrassment. "And he … he wanted me … to do something quite disgusting."

"And you let him insult you like that, the filthy animal! You should've put the fear of the gods into him like I did! He didn't dare to refuse me."

"Believe me, I tried. He just wasn't convinced I would hurt him."

"Wasn't convinced? After what he did … he was an accomplice to murder, the bastard! He didn't need much convincing of what I would've done to him."

Clarice fell silent. The implications of Celeste's words were coming home to her. She realised that a desperate hope had raised itself in the back of her mind and been utterly dashed within a heartbeat.

She said slowly, "Rose … she's ..."

"I'm sorry, Clarice." Tears glittered in Celeste's eyes. "It's … it's no different in my universe. I've searched and searched for a world in which she was still alive." Her voice broke. "I … never found one."

Clarice felt the moisture welling behind her own lids. "Not even one?"

"No. In the end I came to see that the events which doomed Rose made us into who we are. And that's true of all of the other universes I've been able to reach. It's a basic fact of our existence that Rose is dead. The beginning of our new lives as heroes was the end of hers." Celeste began to sob.

_She knows! She understands! _Hearing the pain in Celeste's voice, Clarice felt for the first time a bond between them that she could share with no other person.

"We would have saved her if we could."

"But … the guilt ..."

Suddenly the two voices were one voice. "We would have died for her."

They cried together, knowing the same sense of helplessness at events long gone beyond their control. Knowing that there was no hero power that could turn back time, that could erase their pain. The ever present urge impelling them to bring justice and seek revenge was the only means to hold back the overwhelming sorrow.

As their outpouring of grief began to lessen, Celeste was the first to speak.

"I could tell you how to find the diary, or just show it to you if you came to my universe. Though it might not be in the same place or contain the same words as in yours. But, in any case, I promise you that helping me with my quest won't delay yours. You'll return to the exact same place and time that you left, so nothing will have changed."

"You're sure of this?"

"I've confirmed it in one of the other worlds I've visited. The hero entered the Orb but refused to help me, and I watched her go back exactly as I've said." Celeste looked downcast. "Please … I've already searched so far and for so long, even though its taken no real time in my world. Now at last I've found someone who seems perfect. I don't want another disappointment."

_She isn't quite so debonair as she first appears. She's really desperate for my help. But … what about my daughter, my family?_

"Suppose I died in your universe?"

Celeste met her eyes directly. "To be completely honest, I don't know. The hermits … the monks … couldn't or wouldn't tell me. For all I know you could be completely invincible or might just come back in another body after death. I imagine though you won't want to test those theories to destruction?"

"No … I ..."

"Look, Clarice." Celeste spoke seriously. "I'm not going to tell you that there aren't any risks. But you and I have hero blood, and with that power comes great peril. From the time Lucien blasted us out of that castle window, death has been at our elbow. We can never tell when it might come for us, we can only follow our quest to its destined end. Yes, I'm asking you to put your life in my hands in a world that's not your own. I'm also giving you the chance to experience the greatest, the most amazing adventure a hero could ever be offered. Will you take that opportunity and help me? Or forever wonder what might have happened if you had?"

_I can't … I can't turn back now. She's right, this chance may never come again. Whatever the danger, I've got to know …_

Celeste extended her arm through the crystalline window. "If you want to join with me, take my hand."

_As simple as that … the act of touching._

Without further hesitation, Clarice reached out towards Celeste. The two hands met and clasped one another in a mighty grip.

When she'd entered the Orb, discarding her natural body, there had been no sensation. Now she felt the universe tugging on her with the combined force of a billion billion atoms, and with a heave as from the hand of God, Clarice was wrenched into another world.

* * *

_*The Orb: _the rather obvious chapter title happily coincides with the name of the ambient haus-meisters, of whom the best story is their appearance on _Top Of The Pops,_ in which they played chess while their music played. Much influenced by _Kraftwerk_, who were, IMHO, much better.

_Just like looking in the mirror … almost: _an echo of the confrontational scene in _Face Off. 'Its like looking at a mirror … only not.' _The point being that Troy and Archer see each other's faces and yet are _not _identical. In this case, only Clarice sees her own face.

_It isn't possible for any physical material to travel: _As you've probably realised by now, I've partly changed the theory behind characters switching universes. Orbs are not 'Other Reality Based Selves' as stated in the game, but mechanisms which allow 'souls' to travel from one universe to another inside compatible avatar bodies. I'm assuming that if the substance of different universes met there would be a 'matter meets anti-matter' type explosion destroying both. This is more consistent than the game, which debars the 'henchman' character from taking personal equipment and weapons, but still allows them to earn gold in the other universe. (Hardly surprising as the multi-player was cobbled together at the last minute. Its amazing it works at all well. I believe they made it a lot better in Fable3).

Sorry if there was a lack of action in this chapter; also that its taken so long to produce a relatively short one. Writing two stories amid difficult circumstances is a large part of the reason. Whether I'll be continuing with this one or re-concentrating on the other, I can't say right now. The fact that so far interest in _I'll Be Your Mirror _has been disappointing might influence my decision. But I've enjoyed writing it nonetheless, so who knows, if there are enough pleas … many surprises await Clarice in Celeste's universe.*


End file.
